


The Artistic, Eccentric Type

by peccadilloes



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Morsov has bad taste in music, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Sorry Morsov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4380944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peccadilloes/pseuds/peccadilloes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slit brings one of those rolly things from work -- the things you see guys in commercials roll out from under cars on? One of those things -- he hums a few bars of "Over the Hills and Far Away" and carries a blue one to the Dag's loft apartment over the tea shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artistic, Eccentric Type

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this prompt](http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/1730.html?thread=1215938), which is a Whole Thing Unto Itself and I love it.

Slit brings one of those rolly things from work -- the things you see guys in commercials roll out from under cars on? One of those things -- he hums a few bars of "Over the Hills and Far Away" and carries a blue one to the Dag's loft apartment over the tea shop. On his way in, he passes a motorcycle parked on the sidewalk, and when he elbows open the tea shop door, the Dag's standing there behind the counter counting out incense sticks for some bad ass grandma lady, who probs/obvs belongs to the motorcycle. Granny nods at Slit on her way out, and the door jingles shut behind her.

That Dag of his looks at the door like she's locking it with her mind (she isn't) then wraps a few strands of hair under her chin and beams, "Say, have you come to eat me out?"

Slit's grown to love the piss outta going up the stairs at the back of the tea shop, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder and loaded with new sketches to share.

On most days, the Dag settles onto the doily-covered couch and packs her big purple frosted bong -- "Her name is Carly Dentata!" -- and Slit creaks across the wood floors and pats closed the gauzy curtains to block out the big street-facing windows. The Dag usually rips a whole bowl to herself then pages through Slit's sketches then wanders over to the kitchenette to peek at the ferments on her old-school tiled counter top. "Hello my babies, my friends," she coos. She turns the faucet on, fills a kettle, match lights the gas stove. And Slit usually takes this as his cue to meet her at the record player, which he does today after setting his rolly thing on the big, woven scraps rug in the middle of the room.

The Dag gets that nice orange Zep album out -- the one with the creepy baby children on in it, you know -- and says, "Oh Slit we gotta try this on acid. Your little head will turn into candy." She does the bitty, specific things you do to get your record player ready and spinning, and then the music's on and she's swaying her skirts back to the couch to pack Carly D for round two. The kettle blows, and the Dag carries her bong to the stove. Turns off the stove, rips the bong where she's standing, wanders back toward the couch.

At which point Slit takes her hand and guides the Dag to the carpet, where she hoists up her skirts and he reclines onto his rolly thing and rolls between her thighs.

"Oh you are such a good artist with your hands and mouth. What are those new doodles on your arms? Me? If only we could have a thing where I could just tuck you up under here while I'm behind the counter and going around serving the tea. That would be inappropriate, I know, but could you imagine. And with your hand some how you could be painting, painting. Mmm uhhh."

And it's all very pleasant, like this, you see, until a clomp clomp clomp comes up the stairs and through the beaded-curtain door. Even under the Dag's flowy-flower skirts, even with his mouth made so fine by that delicious Dag, Slit Just. Knows. it's gonna be Morsov. Who it is, obvy, saying loud over the Zep, "Oh hi are you open or what? I want to buy some of that banana rooibos loose leaf tea you had last week?"

Slit slides himself out from under the Dag's pussy skirt tent, pointedly doesn't sit up, but wipes his mouth on his doodled forearm. Gives Morsov a kinda non-verbal, "Hey buddy."

The Dag's got her glass pipey -- "Her name is Little Princess Face Sitter!" -- tucked in her palm with one of those extra small mini lighters. And she lights, and hits, and sort of checks out Morsov, who's got his iPhone in his hand and one of those earbud headphones in his ear. "Are you listening to that Tov Lo remix again, baby? Or wait is it you just discovered 'Riptide'?"

You know Slit snickers. But invisible, without showing it. To Morsov.

The Dag hits pipey LP one more time. Exhales a big cloud, tongues her teeth.

"Can't you see I've got to finish getting eaten out by this artistic gentleman? Ah gimme eight dollars and serve yourself. And can you relight the stove? I forgot to pour the kettle."

Morsov kind of, well, you know him. He fidgets with his headphones cord, avoiding Slit's eye contact at all costs. Then walks himself over to the stove, takes the matches outta the little decorative match box holder with dinosaurs on it and relights the kettle burner with a no-big-dealness that comes with being somebody who's been in this situation before. He sets the eight bucks on the counter between two jars of kimchi, tap tap taps his iPhone to a new song, and slinks back through the bead curtain.

Slit listens for one final clomp and rolls back under the Dag's skirt. 


End file.
